


Blood and White Gold

by athersgeo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athersgeo/pseuds/athersgeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack turns up on Phryne's doorstep, bruised, battered and bleeding, Phryne knows she's in for a long night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and White Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KiaraSayre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaraSayre/gifts).



> This is set sometime after the end of series two and refers quite heavily to the events of s2ep12, Unnatural Habits.
> 
> The characters (well, most of them) aren't mine - no harm, no foul!
> 
> No betas have been harmed in the writing of this fic - all mistakes are my own.

The hour was late. Most of the household – Mr Butler, Jane and Dot – had long since departed for their beds, but Phryne was still up. She'd been expecting a visit from Jack – while they'd had no cases together for a couple of weeks, they had fallen into a comfortable routine of meeting up for an evening nightcap at least once a week – but he hadn't shown up, leaving her feeling oddly miffed and just vaguely concerned. Of course, it was a completely informal arrangement and there could be any number of reasons why Jack hadn't come, but still, there was that nagging doubt that something sinister had happened.

Lounging comfortably in an armchair, with slippered feet warming at the fire, Phryne tried to shrug off those concerns. Jack was a grown man, a trained soldier and a serving police officer of the finest order. He was someone who most definitely and emphatically knew how to take care of himself. And yet, he was also a creature of habit and routine – and his routine had come to include a visit to her parlour for a nightcap, every Wednesday. Now, as Wednesday slowly crept into Thursday, there was no sign of him.

Phryne sighed with vexation. This worrying was quite absurd. For all she knew, he'd been called to a case somewhere, or had simply decided to have an early night. He might even have taken some time to go and visit his family – although she had never heard him speak of any family besides his ex-wife, Rosie Sanderson, and even that had come in the context of police work, rather than any form of confidence. In fact, as she thought about it more, she actually knew remarkably little about Jack Robinson, considering she'd known him for close to two years. That was something that would bear correction, she thought, although she would have to be cautious in her interrogation. He was, after all, a very private man and as much as she was curious about him, she was not about to pry.

She smiled at that decision. She had little doubt most of her acquaintances would be startled to hear her say such a thing. Most of them considered she was terribly nosy and entirely too fond of prying into other people's business – and Phryne freely admitted that she was both of those things. But never with the people she cared for. She would pick and pick and pick at a suspect until she got to the truth, but her friends had earned the right to confide – or not – when they chose and not when Phryne wished it.

That didn't mean she wouldn't occasionally leave them invitations. And that would be just what she'd do with Jack: make a leading statement about her sister or her father or growing up in Collingwood and just see where that took the conversation.

However, that was a gambit for their next meeting and that looked very much as if it wouldn't be this Wednesday evening. The grandfather clock in the hall was chiming for midnight and Phryne felt she'd waited up for quite long enough. Jack wasn't coming and she should seek her bed. But just as she started to stand, she heard a sound on her porch. Heavy booted footsteps were approaching.

Phryne frowned and started to get out of her chair, but even before she'd gained her feet, there was the sound of a solid 'something' being dropped or thrown at her door and then the heavy booted steps were departing far faster than they'd come. Fear and curiosity warred as she hurried across to the door. What was she going to find? Had all her unwanted visitors left or were any of them lurking? That second thought was sufficient to prompt her to grab one of the stout walking sticks from the stand in the hall before she opened the door.

Whatever Phryne's expectations had been, however, were completely destroyed when she tugged the door open. Of her visitors, the only sign of them was the rapidly retreating tail light of a dark coloured car, which was just as well, because the 'something' dumped on her doorstep wasn't so much a 'something' as a 'someone', and a recognisable 'someone' at that – though something less like the normally highly dressed and pressed Jack Robinson, Phryne was hard pushed to imagine.

"Jack!"

The only response her exclamation produced was a prolonged groan, which was not altogether surprising. Just from a quick inspection, Jack looked as if he'd been on the wrong end of a prize fighter's fists. His face was bruised and cut, his clothing was mussed and torn and there were dark patches on his jacket and trousers that suggested he either had been bleeding or was continuing to bleed. That would be bad enough, but the glazed and dazed expression on his face suggested he was only barely conscious. And there was, Phryne thought, no chance at all that she'd be able to move him on her own. Not without causing him more pain in the process.

She took a step back into the house and yelled, "Mr Butler! Dot! Somebody! I need help!"

It was like poking a stick into an ants nest. People appeared in varying states of wakefulness and dress. Mr Butler, in his pyjamas and with his dressing gown thrown haphazardly around his shoulders, was the first to start down the stairs, but Dot was not more than a pace behind him. Oddly, for someone who had ostensibly gone to bed more than an hour ago, Dot was still fully dressed – Phryne made an absent note to enquire about that later. Behind Dot appeared Jane, dressed simply in her nightdress and with her hair every which-way.

"Miss – what seems to be—oh, my!" Mr Butler had reached the bottom of the stairs and had seen for himself the problem.

"Jane – call Dr Mac," Phryne ordered. "Dot--"

"I'll start the kettle and fetch our first aid kit," Dot finished, already heading in the direction of the kitchen.

Phryne eyed Jack and then eyed Mr Butler. "Do you think we can move him ourselves, or do we need Cec and Bert?"

"Oh, I should think we can manage," said Mr Butler with confidence. "The parlour would be best, yes?"

"We certainly won't manage to get him upstairs," Phryne answered, even as she crouched beside Jack and noted that his eyes were closed now, suggesting what little consciousness he'd possessed had now fled and he was out cold.

"On three, then," said Mr Butler.

Between them, they managed to carry Jack through into the parlour and deposited him on the chaise longue. As they did so, Phryne was distantly aware of Jane placing the call through to Mac, though quite what Mac was making of Jane's sleepy demands only time would tell.

"How did he get here?" Mr Butler enquired.

"He was dropped off," Phryne answered. "I don't know who it was – all I saw of them was their car."

"I've made tea," Dot announced, carrying a laden tea tray as well as the first aid kit into the parlour at that moment. "And here's the first aid kit, miss – what do you suppose the inspector's been doing?"

"I don't know," Phryne admitted, studying Jack's bruised face. Under the bright parlour lights, the bruising looked even worse than they had in the dimness on the porch.

"Dr Mac's on her way," said Jane with a yawn.

"Thank you, Jane," Phryne replied. "Take your tea and head back to bed."

"But I want to know if the inspector's all right!"

"I promise, I'll come up to you and let you know," said Phryne. "But this could be a long night, and you have school tomorrow."

Jane offered a sleepy pout, but she did take a cup of tea from Dot's tray and head back up the stairs, pausing only to finally shut the front door.

Dot, meanwhile, set the tea tray down on a convenient table and opened up the first aid box. "Miss, should we start cleaning him up, or should we wait for Dr MacMillan?"

"Start cleaning him up," Mr Butler advised. "Some of those cuts look quite nasty."

"Yes," Phryne agreed. "Never wrong to disinfect a cut. Mr Butler, do you have a spare dressing gown we might borrow?"

"Of course; I'll go and fetch it at once." And he departed, leaving Phryne and Dot alone.

Phryne watched for a moment as Dot set to work on the worst of the cuts on Jack's face. Then she set to work loosening his shoes. It took Dot a moment to realise what Phryne was doing. When she did, her face turned pink.

"Miss, are you—undressing him?"

Phryne smiled faintly. "We shall have to." She pointed to the darkening spots on Jack's trousers. "There are more cuts and bruises under his clothes."

"Oh—oh; of course." Dot's cheeks reddened further, but she gamely continued her ministrations, even as Phryne began to remove Jack's outer garments.

Mr Butler returned, with the requested robe, just as Phryne managed to successfully remove Jack's ruined trousers. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed.

And well he might, Phryne thought ruefully. True to her guess, the dark spots had indicated hidden cuts or, more accurately, hidden gashes. One was merely a badly grazed knee, but the other was a gash of at least four inches in length that ran jaggedly across Jack's thigh and that was still sluggishly oozing blood.

"We need to stop the bleeding," said Phryne, hoping the panic she was now feeling wasn't outwardly apparent. "Mr Butler, a towel – quickly!"

He didn't waste time agreeing; simply departed for the requested towel. While she waited, Phryne took up one of the spare wash-cloths Dot had brought and started to clean up the knee graze. As much as the thigh wound would need disinfecting, Phryne knew that would be for Mac to deal with. It was comfortably beyond the supplies they possessed in the house.

"Towel, Miss," said Mr Butler, returning.

"Fold it into a pad and then press it hard to the—to his—to Jack's thigh," Phryne directed, momentarily thrown back to her war work. "Pressure--"

"I know," said Mr Butler, doing as he was told.

"Miss?" Dot's question dragged Phryne's attention away from Mr Butler. "I think the inspector may have been shot."

For a moment Phryne felt faint. "Shot?"

"His shoulder," said Dot. Her face was still red, but there was a determination to her expression. "His shirt." And she gestured to a roughly circular, albeit drying, stain on Jack's shirt an inch or so down from his collar bone.

"Yes; yes." Phryne closed her eyes for a moment and drew on everything she'd learned in France. "Is there another wound on his back, or is it just this side?"

Dot didn't ask why the question mattered, merely insinuated her hand down Jack's back. "Just this side, Miss."

That meant the bullet was lodged in Jack's shoulder, but Phryne couldn't remember if that was better than the alternative and inwardly cursed. How had she forgotten this?

At that moment, there was a loud knocking on the front door and for the first time in nearly an hour, Phryne allowed herself to breath freely. That had to be Mac.

"I'll go," she said, almost unnecessarily, given that both Dot and Mr Butler were otherwise occupied.

Sure enough, Mac was standing on the doorstep, her Gladstone bag grasped in one hand, and a frown set heavy on her face. "Phryne? What on earth is going on?"

"What did Jane tell you?" Phryne asked, even as she gestured for her friend to enter.

"Not much – she said it was Jack and it was urgent."

"It's that all right," Phryne replied, closing the door. "This way." She led Mac through into the parlour. "The short story is, he was delivered to my doorstep in this condition. He's been beaten, and shot and I have no idea why – and nor could he tell me: he passed out shortly after arriving."

Mac's eyebrows had lifted to her hairline during this recitation. "I'm betting it's going to be an interesting explanation, when you get it," she said. "Shot, you say?"

"To the shoulder. The bullet's lodged – there's no exit wound."

Mac's lips thinned. "Hmm. All right; let me see."

*

The next few hours passed in a blur as far as Phryne was concerned. Mac examined all of Jack's assorted injuries and diagnosed additional injuries that had been overlooked, such as broken ribs – "Definitely took a beating," – and several dislocated fingers – "If this was ten years ago, I'd say he'd been interrogated and 'persuaded' to talk". She stitched the jagged rip on his thigh – "Caused by barbed wire, I'd reckon," she observed off handedly as she worked – and checked the graze on his knee – "Carpet burn, perhaps".

The gun shot was cause for more concern. The bullet had lodged quite deeply within Jack's shoulder, and even allowing for Jack being unconscious and for there being three people to hold him down, Mac still had a difficult job removing it. She dropped it into an empty teacup for lack of a better alternative, and then set about cleaning the wound and stitching it closed.

"He ought to go to hospital, Phryne," she said as she worked. "This much damage needs proper care."

"Not until I know what's going on," said Phryne sharply. "He might not be safe there."

"He might not be safe here, Miss," Dot pointed out. "After all, he was delivered here."

That was something Phryne was refusing to think about.

"There," said Mac. "Finished." She stepped back and admired her handiwork. "He looks a mess."

"But better now than when he arrived," said Phryne quietly.

"True."

"I'll make some more tea," said Mr Butler.

"Don't lose the bullet," Phryne called as he collected the empty tea cups. "We might need that."

"I'll put it in an empty jam jar," he promised.

"I'm going to go and clean up," said Mac. "What time does the inspector's sidekick start work?"

Dot gave Mac a dirty look. "Hugh starts at seven," she answered.

"Sorry, Dot – no offence meant. I'll stop in and see him on the way back to the hospital. Let him know his boss won't be in today."

Phryne blinked. "It's that time already?"

"It will be by the time I get there," said Mac gently. "I'd tell you to get some sleep, but I know I'll be wasting my breath."

Phryne just gave Mac a long look.

"As I said." Mac offered a tired grin. "I know when my advice won't be heard." She started to repack her bag. "I'll stop by this afternoon to check on him."

As Mac disappeared to clean herself up, Dot said, "Miss, do you want me to lay out a change of clothes for you?"

"Please." Phryne sank down onto a convenient footstool and studied Jack's unconscious form. "And you might--"

"Bring a blanket down?" Dot suggested.

Phryne flashed a faint smile. "Exactly."

Dot departed and Phryne was once more alone with Jack. "What have you been up to, Jack Robinson?"

Stubbornly unconscious, Jack didn't reply.

*

The day passed drearily.

Dot made sure that Phryne did, in fact, remember to change her clothes and Mr Butler made sure that everyone ate at least something at mealtimes, but no-one drifted far from the parlour – not even Jane, who Phryne excused from school on the grounds that she knew her daughter well enough that no sensible work would be done if she was forced to go.

Cec and Bert appeared mid-morning – Mac appeared to have told them what had happened. Phryne gave them the description of the car she'd seen, but she knew it wasn't much for anyone to go on. They both vowed to ask around, all the same.

Hugh appeared at lunch time. He too was given the description of the car and, in return, was able to fill in a tiny piece of the puzzle: Jack had been summoned to the Sanderson estate to see to some aspect or other of the estate's liquidation. Rosie Sanderson was, so Hugh said, selling the place – as if that could somehow erase the memories of what her father had done – and had needed Jack's help.

That made Phryne frown afresh. While she doubted that Rosie Sanderson had been any part of Jack's condition, the reminder of what George Sanderson had turned a blind eye to made her think that it was just possible Jack's condition did relate to the ending of that smuggling ring.

Cec reappeared at just after five o'clock, with another man – a cabbie – who admitted freely that he was the one who had delivered Jack to her doorstep the night before.

"Sorry for not stopping, Miss," he said, "but I was running gypsy and I shouldn't even have picked him up."

"Where did you pick him up from?" Phryne asked.

"Down by the docks. He came staggering out of a warehouse – damn nearly hit him...s'cuse the language, Miss."

"The docks?" Phryne repeated. That made no sense – the Sanderson estate was on the very edges of Melbourne. How on earth had Jack got to the docks? And why? "Why did you bring him here?" she asked, turning her attention back to the cabbie.

"Simple – this is where he asked to go. Didn't expect him to pass out in the back of my cab, though."

"No – I don't suppose you did."

After getting a few more details of exactly which warehouse, Phryne dismissed the cabbie and dispatched Cec to relay the information to Hugh.

At least they knew now that Jack was probably as safe here as he'd be anywhere else.

Shortly after Cec's return, Mac showed up to check on Jack's assorted injuries. She stayed just long enough to satisfy herself – and Phryne – that she'd missed nothing and that there were no signs of infection starting up. Once she was convinced, Mac departed again with a promise to return in the morning for a further check up.

More time passed. Hugh returned at nearing eight o'clock with the news that they'd raided the warehouse and found signs it had been used as a holding place for human cargo. It had been owned, once upon a time, by Sidney Fletcher's company and had clearly been a part of the operation. Hugh also reported that there were signs that someone – and neither of them needed to guess who – had been recently held there.

"We found blood," said Hugh, his voice strained. "And one of the inspector's cufflinks."

"Any signs of any barbed wire?"

"The—the holding pens were surrounded by the stuff," Hugh answered, a look of revulsion on his face. "Miss Fisher, how can people do that?"

Phryne smiled grimly. "Because it's a very profitable enterprise. There are people who will pay the earth for girls, and boys." At least they knew now how and where Jack received his injuries and Phryne could take an educated guess about the why: clearly, arresting Fletcher and DeVeer hadn't been the end of that particular racket.

Hugh had departed when he'd finished, promising to update Phryne just as soon as he knew more.

So now it was nearing midnight and Phryne was back in the armchair in the parlour and she was still waiting for Jack, the only difference was, it was now Thursday and he was physically present; just still out cold.

Even as she recognised the symmetry, he gave a groan and she watched as his eyes fluttered open. "Where?"

"My parlour," she answered. "You're not terribly cooperative when you're unconscious."

She watched as Jack froze her her voice. Then he relaxed, presumably as he recognised it. His head turned and he blinked blearily at her. "You sound angry."

"Well you have been bleeding on my good towels," she said lightly.

"I'll replace them, of course."

"But I'm not cross – just worried. You've been unconscious for nearly a full day."

"My apologies."

Phryne mustered a smile. "Something tells me it wasn't your fault. We know it's something to do with Sidney Fletcher."

"He had a partner," said Jack. "Rosie – she's in danger. If I don't—where are my clothes?" This last was added as he realised that he was virtually naked beneath the blanket.

"In the incinerator – it was all they were fit for," said Phryne with some asperity. "If you don't what? What will happen to Rosie?"

"They're going to kill her, unless I free Fletcher and DeVeer."

Phryne frowned. "Jack, if you do that, Fletcher's partner will probably kill you and Rosie both anyway. You know too much."

Jack's head turned back so he was staring up at the parlour ceiling. "I know."

Phryne gave the matter some thought, then smiled. "I have an idea."

Jack turned to look at her. "I never like it when you say that."

"You'll like this one, I promise. What time were you supposed to be bringing DeVeer and Fletcher and where were you supposed to take them to?"

"The warehouse in the docks, five o'clock tomorrow morning." Jack paused. "Tomorrow is Friday, yes?"

"Yes," Phryne agreed. "Presumably our would-be kidnappers have a ship that's leaving on the slack tide, and that accounts for the timetable."

"I would assume so."

Phryne stood up and started for the telephone.

"Wait – Miss Fisher...Phryne, what are you doing to do?"

"I'm going to call Hugh," she answered. "And then I'm going to find a Belgian captain's uniform."

Jack stared for a moment. "I know your acting talents are...considerable--"

"Not for me," she said with a smile. "For Bert. He's about DeVeer's size, and the details will be difficult to spot in the darkness." She reached the doorway. "We are going to save her, Jack. I promise."

*

Four hours later, dressed in clothes scrounged from a combination of Mr Butler and Cec, and Jack found himself back in the docks. He was standing the yard outside the warehouse he'd been held in two days earlier, in the company of a slightly reluctant Bert, who was dressed in the uniform Phryne had procured from somewhere (and Jack was going to assiduously not ask where), with his wrists handcuffed together in front of him.

"D'you have to make the cuffs so tight?" Bert muttered.

"Sorry – one size," Jack answered. "And at least try to sound Belgian."

"Huh. You fall, I won't catch ya," Bert retorted, but he did make the effort to sound Belgian. To Jack's ears, it wasn't a very successful effort, but he supposed the thought counted.

"I'll try not to fall, then," said Jack. He was honest enough to admit that falling was a very strong possibility, however – as much as Mac had clearly been able to do for his assorted injuries, he'd felt considerably better in his time. Off and on his head ached like nothing on earth, his shoulder throbbed and, if he moved just fractionally wrong, the leg he'd gashed on one of the 'pen' fences felt as if it were on fire. All in all, conventional wisdom said he ought to at the very least be sitting down and, for preference, actually be in hospital.

Not with Rosie still in trouble, though.

As with many of Phryne's plans, there were large chunks of it that were suspiciously vague, but the basic essence of it was sound. Jack and Bert were standing in front of a police vehicle borrowed for the occasion. In the darkened interior, Phryne and Cec were also waiting – Cec, dressed as a rough approximation of Sidney Fletcher, although no-one would buy that particular ruse should Cec have to get out of the car. Stationed around and about the warehouse was Hugh with as many other police men as they could beg, borrow or otherwise acquire, hidden until such a time as the trap was sprung.

The intention was to allow Fletcher's business partner – an Andrew Jones – and his henchmen to arrive and begin the exchange – Rosie, for Bert – and as soon as Rosie was safely away from Jones' grip, the police would swoop in and arrest everyone.

Jack could think of numerous ways the plan could go wrong. So, he knew, could Phryne, and Bert had been voluble on the subject of the plan's short comings, but they were going through with it because it was the best plan they had.

"Looks like this is them," Bert muttered as a grey Rolls Royce rolled into the yard.

As Andrew Jones climbed out of the car, dragging a gagged and struggling Rosie with him, Jack agreed.

"I have to admit," Jones called. "I'm surprised to see you here, with him. I didn't think Jack Robinson would do something this unethical."

Jack wondered who had illuminated his reputation to Jones – his former father-in-law or Fletcher himself. "The deal was, I get you Fletcher and DeVeer, you let Rosie go. Here's DeVeer; Fletcher's in the car. You can let Rosie go now."

For a few moments, Jack thought Jones wouldn't go for it. For a few, heart-stopping moments, he thought his reputation meant Jones wouldn't believe this ruse. Then Jones let go of Rosie's arm and gave her a shove in Jack's general direction, and Jack remembered to breath again.

Without needing a prompt, Bert started forwards.

As Bert drew level with Rosie, Jones called, "Now I want to see Fletcher." He drew a gun and aimed it at Rosie's back. "Or I shoot."

Time seemed to dilate from Jack's view point. He heard the door of the car open behind him. He saw Bert interpose himself between Rosie and Jones. He heard the sound of a gun firing. He saw Jones jerk backwards.

Then came a sudden on rush of noise and shouting and chaos as Hugh and his task force raced in to arrest Jones and his cronies, while Bert hustled Rosie the remaining few feet to the waiting car. It was only when Jack felt a gentle hand on his arm, that he realised the gunshot he'd heard had actually been from Phryne and that she was now standing beside him, most effectively propping him up.

"There," she said, with just the faintest touch of smugness. "I told you it would be fine."

Jack rolled his eyes – then wished he hadn't as the gesture set his head pounding once more. "Bert, get Rosie out of here."

"Soon as you take the bloody cuffs off," Bert retorted, waggling his handcuffed wrists in Jack's general direction.

Before Jack could say anything, Phryne had produced the keys and freed Bert. "Take her to my house, Bert."

"Will do."

And without further ado, he ushered the utterly confused Rosie into the police car and drove away.

*

Rosie felt dazed as she was ushered into Miss Fisher's parlour by the man who'd been dressed as DeVeer. "How--?"

"Miss Fisher," said the fake-DeVeer.

Rosie supposed that was all the answer she needed.

"Ah, Miss Sanderson – glad to see you in one piece." The speaker was Miss Fisher's butler. "Bert, I trust the others will be here shortly?"

"Had to finish off the paper work," said Bert. "But I think Hugh was going to bundle Miss Fisher and the inspector into a cab and send them--" The front door opened again, this time to admit both Miss Fisher and Jack. "—home," Bert finished with a grin.

"So I see." The butler smiled. "Miss Sanderson – a cup of tea?"

"Uh, yes – please."

In a few moments, she found herself sitting in one of the armchairs. Jack had been eased down on to a chaise longue – he really did look simply dreadful, Rosie thought – while Bert had disappeared to change out of the borrowed captain's uniform. Miss Fisher, meanwhile, was standing nervously in the doorway.

"Sidney's business partner is now also in jail," she began. "But clearing up the rest of the gang may take a few more days."

"Weeks, more likely," said Jack grimly.

"I'm sorry," said Rosie. "I—I didn't know."

"I'm sure you didn't," Miss Fisher agreed soothingly. "Sidney Fletcher was clearly an extremely clever man. His business partners, however, are rather less-so."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, by attacking you – and Jack – we now know they're out there," Miss Fisher explained. "And now that we know that, we will...deal with them."

Rosie was grateful to know the particularly dark expression now gracing Miss Fisher's face wasn't aimed at her.

"What will you do now?" Jack asked.

"I was planning to travel to England, to see my mother's family," Rosie answered. "I think, perhaps, I'll stick to that but make it sooner. Before the estate is sold."

"That might be for the best," Jack agreed.

"And in the meantime," said Miss Fisher, "you may stay here, out of sight of any prying eyes or nosy individuals."

"I couldn't possibly--"

"You could and I insist," said Miss Fisher.

"Word of advice," said Jack confidentially. "Don't try to argue with Miss Fisher. You will always lose."

Despite everything that had happened that evening, Rosie chuckled. "I can believe it."

Miss Fisher held out a hand. "Let me show you to a room, and you can get some rest – we can sort the details out later."

Rosie accepted and got to her feet.

"You too, Jack – you're not occupying my chaise longue today. For one thing, Mac will kill me if I don't get you into bed."

Rosie's jaw dropped open. Then she saw Jack's face turn a delicate shade of puce and had to hastily clap a hand across her mouth to muffle the sudden laughter. Miss Fisher and Jack Robinson – quite clearly a match made in heaven, or perhaps somewhere a little further to the south. In a way, she would miss seeing how the relationship developed, but she had a feeling that the next few days, at least, would prove to be deeply entertaining.

*

With Rosie Sanderson safely seen into one of the spare rooms and Jack carefully ensconced in another, Phryne allowed herself to heave a sigh of relief.

"Tea, Miss," said Dot, proffering a cup as she spoke.

"Thank you, Dot." Phryne sipped the tea. "I feel as if I could sleep for a week."

"Well, I've called Aunt Prudence and told her you're indisposed," said Dot. "So instead of coming to tea today, she'll be here tomorrow."

"How very bold of you," said Phryne with a smile. "Thank you."

"The only other thing in your diary is Jane's school play."

"Well that I can't miss – but that is this afternoon, isn't it?"

"Five o'clock, Miss," said Dot promptly.

"Then have Mr Butler wake me at three," Phryne decided. "And make sure you get some sleep yourself," she added. "I know you've been awake nearly as long as me."

"Yes, Miss. As soon as the butcher's been."

Phryne nodded, satisfied, and turned for her own bedroom. It really had been a long few days, but the end result had made it worthwhile – and it was definitely gratifying that when Jack had been in trouble, this had been where he'd come to.

Phryne smiled and threw herself headlong onto her bed. So maybe she didn't know much about him; she knew the important parts and as long as he trusted her, the rest would sort itself out.


End file.
